


A Candle in the Fog

by Gray Cardinal (Gray_Cardinal)



Category: Candleshoe (1977)
Genre: Gen, Misses Clause Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 17:14:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/600188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gray_Cardinal/pseuds/Gray%20Cardinal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lady St. Edmund’s lawyers had decided the safest way to forestall any awkward questions about one Casey Brown’s legal status was to pretend no such girl had ever existed – essentially, carrying on the deception Harry Bundage had begun.  But for Casey, no <i>other</i> girl had ever existed....</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Family History

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rabidsamfan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabidsamfan/gifts).



> Candleshoe _was, is, and always will be a classic Disney feature, which means that the Mouse holds all its copyrights and trademarks. The present narrative is unauthorized and unrepentant, having been authored quite outside the Disney umbrella and purely for entertainment’s sake. (I have completely ignored the book by Michael Innes from which the movie claims to be derived, as that connection is decidedly slender.) Certain other characters appearing herein are drawn from beneath a quite different umbrella, about which we’ll talk more later – but the reader should be assured that this is first and last a_ Candleshoe _story. In that light, profuse thanks are due to[duckwhatduck](archiveofourown.org/users/duckwhatduck), [Starrrz](archiveofourown.org/users/Starrrz), and [maevebran](maevebran.livejournal.com%22) for assistance in navigating the eccentricities of the British peerage system. Disney universes being what they are, I trust readers will forgive any glaring lapses (and that they’ll blame them entirely on me, not on my advisors and sources)._

_Autumn 1977_

The office building was in a district of London just old enough to be distinguished yet not so venerable as to be ruinously expensive.  As a result, its lobby’s desk clerk was sufficiently busy dealing with the needs of the folk who actually belonged in the building that she failed to note the arrival, quite late one Friday afternoon, of a tall gentleman and a somewhat shorter woman who did not, in fact, belong there at all.  The duo seated themselves on a bench usefully sheltered by a large potted plant and waited quietly for some fifteen minutes before the woman began to fidget.

“Remind me,” she said, “why we’re stopping here, out in public and all.”

Her companion spoke softly to avoid being overheard.  “It will be some hours before Scotland Yard learns of our escape, my dear; have no fear on that score.  Meanwhile, in a few short moments, one Miss Grimsworthy will emerge from one of those elevators, bearing copies of certain documents with which various of her employers have been concerned this past week.  We shall collect those documents, and – if Fortune is kind – use the information they contain to reclaim the greatest treasure our family has ever possessed.”

The woman gave a slight, soft gasp.  “Not—?”

“Oh, yes,” he told her, eyes agleam.  “The Cauldron of Fog shall be ours once more...and with it, the keys to prosperity and revenge alike.”

“Where is it, then?”

“Hidden, of course.  Concealed.  Locked away.  Kept secure these hundreds of years by the man who stole it from Great-Great-Grandfather Mandrake – Captain Joshua St. Bloody Edmund of Candleshoe.”  The tall man glanced toward the elevators and smiled thinly.  “And here’s Miss Grimsworthy now, with the papers that will lead us to it!”

#

_Three days earlier_

Casey watched from the library window as her friends hurried along the estate’s long driveway toward the road – except that _friends_ didn’t feel like quite the right word.  Something closer had sprung up between Casey and the others in the weeks she’d been living at Candleshoe, and it wasn’t a bond she could properly label.  _Siblings_ was wrong, of course.  All five of them, herself included, were orphans – even if Lady St. Edmund was right about who Casey’s parents had been, which was a different problem entirely.  _Roomies_?  No, that wasn’t right either, and not just because the house was large enough to hold at least another dozen kids without anyone having to double up.

“It really is for the best,” Lady St. Edmund said from behind her, resting a hand on Casey’s shoulder.

“Oh, I know.  Casey Brown, trouble magnet, that’s me.  _Disruptive influence_ , they’d call it back in L.A.  Or _mischief maker_.”  She turned away from the window with a short, sharp laugh.

“Mischief,” Lady St. Edmund observed mildly, “occasionally has its uses.  You are who you are, my dear.”

“And who I are is a disruptive influence,” said Casey, her tone wry.

“Say rather a catalyst.  You’ve already sent ripples through the countryside, just by coming here and then choosing to stay.  They’ll settle with time, but for now—”

Casey’s laugh had a bit less pain behind it this time.  “For now, we wait.”

“Not to worry,” said Lady St. Edmund.  “You’ll be busy enough.  We’ve a fair bit of sorting out to finish with the authorities, to make certain there’s no question of your staying on.  And there _will_ be lessons....”

“Oh, God.  Please tell me you’re not hiring a tutor.”

Now it was Lady St. Edmund who laughed.  “Certainly not – at least, not yet.  Just now we only need to coach you through exams.  Priory and I can manage that, and give you some more of the family history into the bargain.”

“But—”  There was that word again – _family_.  Lady St. Edmund, of course, was convinced that Casey really was her long-lost granddaughter Margaret – the girl she’d originally been recruited to impersonate.  Casey’s own memories on the matter were a total blank, lost behind a sea of shelters and foster homes, but she had eventually had to admit that the idea wasn’t totally impossible.  For the most part, Lady St. Edmund had been content not to press the issue, but it remained a matter of tension between them.

“There’s no getting round it,” Lady St. Edmund told her now.  “For one, we’re keeping up the tours; I’ve no doubt you’ll make a brilliant guide once you’ve mastered the stories.”

Casey sighed but didn’t protest.  “And I s’pose the tourists will want to hear ‘em from ‘young Lady Margaret’.”

“Indeed, though that isn’t a story we’ll share anytime soon.  But do remember – once you’re fitted out with a proper British passport, you’ll _be_ Margaret Rosamund St. Edmund.”  She wouldn’t actually be _Lady_ Margaret, fourth Marchioness of Candleshoe.  Pressing that claim would involve complicated inquiries and eventually require the blessing of the House of Lords itself, providing enough evidence turned up to satisfy the investigators.  In the meantime, Lady St. Edmund’s lawyers had decided the safest way to forestall any awkward questions about one Casey Brown’s legal status was to pretend no such girl had ever existed – essentially, carrying on the deception Harry Bundage had begun.  At least that was how Casey preferred to think of it.

“Well, then,” she asked, “besides good old Captain Joshua, what ancestors do I need to know about?”

Lady St. Edmund tapped the thick, heavily bound volume lying next to Casey on the window seat.  “The full genealogy is here, but for today we’ll make do with the highlights: Lady Rebecca, the very first Marchioness; Lord Bartholomew, who built the church down in the village; and of course our own Captain Joshua.”

“Very first Marchioness?  As in, they created the title for her?”

“Just so.  This was just after the Wars of the Roses, you see.  The St. Edmunds had been strong supporters of the new king, Henry Tudor, but nearly all Rebecca’s brothers had been killed in the fighting while she managed the family’s affairs at home.  Rebecca was made Marchioness to see that the new holdings prospered, but she never married, so the title descended to the last surviving brother.  His line continued straight through to the Great War – where my five brothers, like Lady Rebecca’s, all gave their lives.  I became the second Marchioness, and my Cordelia was the third.”  Lady St. Edmund paused, her eyes misting over.

“Right,” Casey said quickly into the silence.  “So that’s Rebecca, and I don’t s’pose building a church counts as much of a story.  But Captain Joshua, now – you can’t go wrong with a good pirate yarn.”

Lady St. Edmund’s smile might have been a trifle thin, but Casey carefully didn’t notice.  “Quite so.  Although Captain Joshua was properly a privateer, and unlike a good many of his fellows, he never once overstepped his letters of marque.”

“Letters of marque?”

“A royal license to raid enemy commerce – the key word being _enemy_.  A disquieting number of His Majesty’s privateers were rather more flexible.  So long as they believed themselves safe in doing so, they pillaged any ship they could capture – especially if the owner was a political rival.  Captain Joshua wouldn’t stand for that.  Late in his career, he took to setting traps for the renegade peers, confiscating their weapons and scuttling their ships.”

Casey grinned.  “I bet the other lords didn’t like that much.”

“Most certainly not!  To this day some of those families – the St. Arnolds of Welbeck, the Ffoggs of Fogshire – hold us responsible for various of their own misfortunes.”

“Can they do anything about it?”

“Not legally,” said Lady St. Edmund.  “Some of them tried, of course, but since Joshua was operating within the scope of his marque, the Crown held that he was within his rights to defend himself from pirates and do as he liked with their armaments.”

“But not their booty?” Casey asked.

“In general, no – that had to be restored to the rightful owners, if they could be traced, or shared with the Crown if they couldn’t. Here,” Lady St. Edmund said, leaning sideways and using both hands to pull a large manuscript box from a nearby shelf.  “These are transcripts from Captain Joshua’s journals.  The originals are quite fragile by now, and in any case you’ve seen his handwriting.”

“Oh, yeah,” Casey said, remembering the will she’d been shown.  “I bet he got lousy marks in penmanship, back in the day.”

That prompted a laugh.  “Very likely.  Then again, he was writing aboard ship much of the time, often in abysmal weather.  I tell you, sometimes working out what he’d written was a considerable challenge – at times, the best I could do was make an educated guess.”

Casey’s eyebrows shot up.  “You copied the journals yourself?”

“I did,” said Lady St. Edmund.  “It was an immense amount of work – I spent three or four years at it, all told – but it had to be done while they could still be handled, and my father wouldn’t trust the job to just any university student or would-be scholar.”

“Makes sense,” Casey said, nodding.  “A pirate’s – um, privateer’s logbooks?  Guys like Harry would’ve been all over that, looking for clues to hidden treasure whether they were there or not.”  She paused.  “Are there?  Clues, I mean.”

“If there are, I didn’t find them.  But then again, at the time we weren’t in quite such dire need, and if old Joshua was being sly about it....”  Lady St. Edmund smiled.  “Perhaps you’ll turn up something I missed.  Do put that back when you’ve finished; there are twenty-eight boxes in all.”  She gestured at the relevant shelf.

“Twenty-eight?”  Casey’s voice squeaked in dismay.

Lady St. Edmund gave her a bemused look.  “Now, my dear, there’s no need to rush -- and it shouldn’t take as long as all that.  There are whole sections of ‘nothing much happened for six weeks running’ scattered among the battles and storms and the occasional mutiny.”  She stepped back and turned, laying a hand on the door handle.  “And do remember, we’re going to London tomorrow, to see the solicitors again.”

“Oh, joy.”  Abruptly, twenty-eight boxes of Captain Joshua’s journals seemed much more appealing.  Casey pulled the first one toward her and tugged off its lid.

“I’ll see that Priory fetches you for lunch,” Lady St. Edmund said as she let herself out of the library.

#

_Three days later_

The hotel was fourth-rate at best, but its penthouse suite still boasted a fireplace, and the proprietors were known for not asking too many questions of their guests – which was as well, considering where the suite’s occupants had been living scarcely a week earlier.  Just now, one of them sat in an understuffed gray armchair, eyeing a legal-sized sheet of paper with something less than enthusiasm.

“This?  This is purest rubbish!”

The woman crumpled the document and aimed at the fire, but the gentleman standing beside the chair caught her wrist before she could make the throw.  “Patience, my dear; it’s as I expected.”

“You expected arrant nonsense?  This is bloody useless, that’s what it is.”

“Only because we lack context.   St. Edmund’s letter is addressed to Candleshoe’s legal heir – someone who’d know the estate like the back of his hand, and recognize clues straight off we as outsiders would never recognize.  You or I would be equally cautious were we setting down notes for our own descendants.  One simply doesn’t write ‘the alchemical laboratory is hidden behind the dungeon under the old cricket pavilion; press such-and-such a brick on the south wall to open the secret door’.”

“True,” the woman admitted.  “But really, this is impossibly vague.  Just look!”  She uncrumpled the sheet as the gentleman leaned forward, and together they studied its contents:

> _\-- and finally, I come to certain items and materials so dangerous or Powerful that I deem them best kept safe even from my own hands.  These are my most Deeply held Secrets, and I charge my heirs to guard them as I have, against wrongdoers and righteous folk alike.  If in direst need you choose to seek out these tools, know that to reach them you must sacrifice freedom and pass through mortal peril.  One who Treads this path but lightly will Surely fail, and one who wins through may escape the Pit only by going deeper still._

“Oh, come,” said the gentleman.  “It’s perfectly straightforward apart from the appalling penmanship.  Clearly the hiding place is underground – all that about ‘deeply held secrets’ and a pit.  As for the entrance, it’s most likely through whatever Captain Joshua’s excuse for a dungeon may be.  I’d have said through his torture chamber, but by Lord Mandrake’s accounts the old fox was too soft to maintain one.”

The woman’s shoulders twitched in a shrug.  “Yes, well, and how do you propose we get into Candleshoe?  You’ll have seen the _Times_ – the place actually went up for sale, and then the old lady finds Joshua’s fortune at the very last instant, so instead it’s all over bricklayers and electricians, being brought up to date.  And without your old pipe—”

“Fear not, my dear, I have a few tricks brewed up for the occasion.  And the construction should work to our advantage; with so many folk about the estate, no one will notice one or two more.  With proper disguises we’ll have no trouble, and once we’ve seen the lay of the land, the clues should come clear in no time.”

“I do hope so.  We can’t hope to reclaim Ffogg Place without the Cauldron, and even then....”

The gentleman laughed.  “All in good time, sister dear.  With the Cauldron in hand, we’ll simply take over Candleshoe instead.  And by the time anyone realizes what we’re about, no one will be able to foil our plans.  Now then, what do you say we order supper?”


	2. Storytelling

_early the following week_

“And this—?”

“Is where Lord Bartholomew St. Edmund drew the plans for St. Michael’s Church in Compton-in-the-Hole in 1670-something.”  Casey leaned against the corner of a massive mahogany desk, eyeing the portrait of a serious-looking young man with shaggy auburn hair that hung on the study’s west wall.  “After which he parted the English Channel, fought off a pack of rampaging werewolves, married the vicar’s daughter, and lived happily ever after.”

Priory, seated on a long wooden bench running beneath a wide-multi-paned window, regarded her with an amused expression.  “That would be 1678,” he said dryly, “and one alleged werewolf does not constitute a pack.  However, leaving aside the English Channel and allowing for a touch of poetic license, not bad at all.”

“Alleged?” Casey cocked an eyebrow.  “According to old Bart’s diary, the guy had four-inch fangs and more fur than a bearskin rug.  And he practically went up in flames when Bart beaned him with his silver-headed walking stick.”

“So he says.  But consider how much alcohol both men must have consumed during that evening’s ball.  According to the vicar, Sir Osric had spilled wine on his doublet – so when a candelabra went over during the fight, the garment naturally caught fire.  A perfectly rational explanation.”

Casey shook her head.  “Maybe.  But the werewolf story’s more exciting.”

Priory chuckled.  “So it is.  Let’s just try to avoid stretching it too far during next week’s tour, shall we?”

“Gotcha,” Casey said.  “Fought off _one_ crazed werewolf, check.  So, how about a snack?”

Priory favored her with a stern glare for all of seven seconds, then relented with a smile.  “I begin to understand,” he said, as they clattered down the main stairway toward the kitchen, “why the expression ‘bottomless pit’ is often used to describe the teen-aged stomach.”

Casey grinned back.  “Look at it this way: I was underfed for years back in America, so now I’m just trying to catch up.”

“Indeed.  Very well then; we’ll have Mrs. Carlton whip up a gallon or two of rice pudding.”  The estate’s newly restored prosperity had allowed for the return of a full-time cook and a groundskeeper, although Priory had retained custody of the motorcar along with his butler’s duties.

“Very funny,” said Casey.  “How about strawberry ice cream instead?”

“As you wish.  I’ll just have the antihistamines ready, for after.” 

“You do that.”  Casey watched as Priory deftly collected dishes and assembled a tray, carefully keeping out of Mrs. Carlton’s way.  The new cook had been sliding a roasting pan into the oven (also new) as they arrived.  Now she’d turned to the pantry to collect ingredients for her next project, nodding cheerily at Priory as he led Casey out again.  Rather than setting the tray down in the dining room, however, Priory tapped a wall panel, opening a narrow hidden door.  A few paces down the passage behind it, he paused, tapped another wall panel, and waved Casey through into a crowded, shabby room whose function seemed equally divided between parlour and office.  A couch occupied most of the space along one wall; bookshelves – including space for a small television – filled another, a compact and extremely cluttered-looking desk sat in one corner, and a small table flanked by two plain wooden chairs took up much of the remaining space.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” Priory said as he set down the tray and dropped onto one of the chairs.

Casey gave the room a long, studied look before taking the other chair and reaching for her spoon.  “Comfy.  Does the boss know you’ve got a TV down here?”

Priory’s eyes crinkled.  “There’s no rule against it,” he observed mildly, “at least not in the private portions of the house.  Now that we are better off, it may be time to acquire a set for more general use.  Peter, I believe, is quite fond of _Doctor Who_.”

“Good plan,” Casey said.  “And while you’re at it, let’s get a helicopter and a red Ferrari and put in a hockey rink.”

“A touch of realism, please,” Priory told her.  “As you may recall, while we are now moderately prosperous, we’ve not actually ascended to the heights of the idle rich. Also,” he added, “there is no chance whatsoever that the National Trust would sanction either a helipad or an ice rink on the immediate grounds.”

Casey sighed theatrically.  “I guess I could settle for the red Ferrari....”

Priory’s eyes went suddenly dark.  “It wouldn’t be wise, I’m afraid.”

“Huh?”

At her bewildered expression, Priory softened.  “I don’t suppose your, ah, former patron would have told you – and I’d forgotten till you brought up the idea just now.  Ten years past, when Lady Cordelia’s husband was killed in that auto crash – he was driving a red Ferrari.”

“Yikes!”  Casey’s own memory might be blank, but the haunted look in Lady St. Edmund’s eyes had been all too clear.  “You’re right, Harry didn’t mention that.  Definitely scratch the Ferrari.”

There was a brief silence, punctuated by the soft rattle of spoons against bowls whose supply of ice cream was rapidly diminishing.  “Tell me,” Casey said eventually.  “How does a straight-ahead English butler get to be a world-class master of disguise?  I mean, did you used to be James Bond or something?”

Priory laughed.  “I’m quite sure I’d have made an amazingly bad spy.  No, as it happened a friend I made during the War went into the theater afterward, and I went with him more or less on a lark.  He taught me a great deal about makeup, costuming, and dialect, and also a good bit about picking out rogues like the erstwhile Mr. Bundage.  Now that you mention it, it’s possible _he_ was in Intelligence, though of course he’d not have said so if he was.”

“And then?”

“Strangely enough, we both left the theater and became straight-ahead English butlers.  Mind you, Alfred fared rather better than I – he emigrated to America, and his employer is as ‘idle rich’ as they come.  I merely returned to the village where I was raised, went to work for the St. Edmunds, and here we are thirty-odd years later.”

“Cool,” said Casey.  She steepled her fingers and gave Priory a considering look.  “Hey, here’s an idea: suppose you teach _me_ the master-of-disguise routine?  We could call it part of my education.”

Priory blinked, staring at her as if she’d suddenly grown an extra nose.  “Good heavens.  I scarcely dare imagine what you might do with that sort of expertise.”

“What, you don’t trust me?”  Casey gave him her best hurt-puppy expression.  “I swear, I’d use my powers only for good.  Well, mostly for good.  Look, I’m not even crossing my fingers.”

Priory was clearly trying not to laugh.  “See there, you have the acting ability already.  With Alfred’s bag of tricks in your repertoire, you’d be positively dangerous.  Or,” he added, more thoughtfully, “just possibly, a great success on the legitimate stage.  Although....”

He trailed off, frowning, and was silent for nearly a full minute.  Then he took a deep breath and looked her straight in the eyes.  “How serious are you about learning stagecraft?  Not just changing your appearance, mind, but all of it – training your voice, controlling your body language, creating character and so on?”

It was Casey’s turn to frown; her spur-of-the-moment suggestion had taken on unexpected weight.  She twirled her spoon absently between her fingers, considering the question.  This time, the silence lasted several minutes before she finally set down the spoon and spoke.

“Ten minutes ago, I’d have told you it was – how’d you say it? – a lark.”  Priory’s eyebrows rose, but she flicked a shushing gesture at him and went on.  “Now?  Not so much.  You were right; I’ve been telling stories my whole life – mostly making ‘em up as I go along – and a lot of ‘em were pretty cheesy.  If I learn how to do it better, the way you said, maybe that will help the stories get better too.  Especially the endings.”  She didn’t dare say the words _happily ever after_ out loud, but they felt neon-bright inside her head.

Priory’s eyebrows went up even further, but at the same time all trace of severity vanished from his face.  “I see.  Well.”  He paused; for a brief moment his expression reminded Casey of a small child clinging desperately to his belief in Santa Claus.  Then he shook his head as if clearing his thoughts.

“Very well,” he said, looking as grave as Casey had ever seen him.  “You shall have all the lessons I can give you, and more besides – that is, if you’ll make me one promise.”

“Mostly for good, remember?”  Casey wiggled her feet out of her shoes and stuck them out from under the table.  “No crossed fingers _or_ toes.”

“It’s more specific than that.  You know, I think, that milady considers you her genuine granddaughter.”  Casey nodded, and Priory went on.  “Whatever the truth may be, she trusts in that belief – and that is a trust that must never be broken.”

“But I’m not—”

Priory cut her off.  “It isn’t a question of your actually being Margaret St. Edmund.  You aren’t the girl she would have been, and no amount of makeup or mannerism can alter one’s inner nature.  But you must at least be the granddaughter milady expects you to be.  She has, so she believes, lost you once; it would utterly destroy her to lose you a second time.”

That was certainly true enough.  Casey had also picked up the distinctly intense quality in Priory’s tone; clearly, his feelings toward Lady St. Edmund were more than simply professional.  _And that makes two of us_ , she noted with equal measures of surprise and amusement.

“Let me get this straight,” she said aloud.  “You want me to keep right on doing the job I was doing for Harry, only now it’s gonna be a lifetime gig.  And you’re not even offering me a lousy Ferrari?”

A wry chuckle escaped Priory’s lips.  “You could put it that way, I suppose.  That said – there would certainly be free room and board throughout.  There would be the satisfaction of a job well done in what I hope one would consider a noble cause.  There’s the grounding in stagecraft you asked for.  And then of course there’s the estate itself: house, outbuildings, acreage, and whatever may be left of Captain Joshua’s fortune when the time comes.  Which may not be a great deal,” he observed, “after all the renovations and other expenses.  Still, you’d likely be able to manage a Ferrari out of the proceeds, should you still want one.”

“But – how?”  Casey’s eyes had glazed over with shock.  “I mean, if I’m not....”

“What, you hadn’t worked it out?”  Priory cocked an eyebrow at her.  “The title doesn’t really matter in the circumstances.  If you were somehow confirmed in it, of course, the estate would pass automatically – but otherwise, it simply lapses, and milady can bequeath the property to whomever she likes.  Her long-lost granddaughter, for example.”

“You have _got_ to be kidding.”

Priory shook his head.  “Absolutely not.  That’s one of the subjects milady has been discussing with the solicitors these past weeks.  And don’t even think of trying to turn down the inheritance,” he told her. “Milady is a peer of the old school; for her, Candleshoe is as much a responsibility as a gift, and she’ll do whatever she has to in order to keep it in the family.”

“So basically I’m stuck.  Me, Casey Brown, mistress of Candleshoe – someday, anyhow.”

“Someday,” Priory agreed.  “Under the legal name of Margaret St. Edmund, but yes.”

Casey sighed dramatically.  “In that case, you’ve got a deal.”  She reached across the table and shook Priory’s hand.  “So when do we start?  If we’re gonna make this work, I need all the help I can get.”

“No time like the present.  Come along,” Priory said, rising and heading for one of the room’s two non-secret doors.  Casey hurried after him, eager to begin her first lesson.


	3. Visitors

_two days later_

In the new scheme of things, Thursday meant cleaning day at Candleshoe – which meant, in turn, that Casey was navigating through the house mostly via secret passage.  Rather than hiring live-in household servants, Priory had commissioned an agency to come in once a week and do a thorough cleaning.  According to Priory, it was markedly less expensive than keeping a staff, but Lady St. Edmund – no, _Grandmother_ , Casey told herself as she padded past the Great Hall toward the library – had approved the arrangement chiefly to avoid any recurrence of the “Grimsworthy problem”.

The single disadvantage was that the cleaning crew swept through the house like several swarms of bees at once, and woe betide anyone who happened across their path.  Their first visits had occurred prior to the start of the school term; in the first week, Bobby had knocked over three crewfolk like so many bowling pins while sliding through the Great Hall, and during the second, Cluny had wandered into the laundry room at the wrong moment and found herself folding linens for two and a half hours.  “Not that I minded, exactly,” she’d said afterward, “but having once hired them, it doesn’t seem fair if we keep right on doing their job.”  Priory, much amused, arranged for the cleaning service to pay Cluny proper wages for the time she’d worked and strongly encouraged the youngsters to keep out of the crews’ way thereafter.

Casey had been taking that advice ever since, so before she pressed the mechanism that opened the secret door into the library, she slid aside a narrow panel and peered through the spy hole into the room – which was, she discovered, chock-full of gray-uniformed folk wielding dustcloths, wood polish, and a vacuum cleaner.   _Okay, later_ , she told herself, closing the spy panel, and backtracked.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t possible to reach the kitchen via secret passage.  This wasn’t for lack of passages; as Priory had said on her very first night, the house was riddled with them.  But Mrs. Carlton had neatly blocked the kitchen’s hidden entrance with a cabinet full of cast-iron cookware within two days of taking up residence, and Priory had refused to intervene in the matter.  So instead, Casey emerged from behind the main staircase into the foyer, and was halfway across to the kitchen hallway when she nearly stepped on a sheet of paper.

“Wha-?”

Even on normal days, one normally didn’t find clutter on Candleshoe’s floors.  Priory’s butler instincts simply didn’t allow it, and the cleaning crews were even tidier.  Moreover, this wasn’t ordinary clutter; the paper was folded rather than crumpled, and crisp enough that it couldn’t have been there for more than a few minutes.  Casey reached down, picked it up, unfolded it...

“Wha-?  Okay, this is officially weird.”

She recognized Captain Joshua’s handwriting well enough, from the will Harry and his cousin had shown her.  But this was a different document entirely – and it was definitely a photocopy, maybe even a copy of one.

> _\-- and finally, I come to certain items and materials so dangerous or Powerful that I deem them best kept safe even from my own hands.  These are my most Deeply held Secrets, and I charge my heirs to guard them as I have, against wrongdoers and righteous folk alike.  If in direst need you choose to seek out these tools, know that to reach them you must sacrifice freedom and pass through mortal peril.  One who Treads this path but lightly will Surely fail, and one who wins through may escape the Pit only by going deeper still._

And finally, in the bottom corner of the sheet, was a line of tiny print: “CONFIDENTIAL: Carstairs, Satterthwaite, Bishop & Quin, Solicitors.”  Which was to say, Lady—make that Grandmother’s lawyers.  Which was peculiar, too, because this week was the first in some time when there hadn’t been a visit to London and the lawyers’ offices.  Nor was Grandmother even in the house just now; one of her committees was meeting in the village

It was obviously a capital-C Clue.  All thoughts of snacking forgotten, she stood in the foyer studying the letter and trying to unravel its meaning – so that she almost didn’t notice when a man and woman in gray emerged from the library.  The woman carried a feather duster; her companion had what appeared to be a mop, except that he was unscrewing the upper half of its handle as he walked.

As the woman caught sight of Casey, she let out a startled breath.  “Sorry, miss,” she said in a rush, reaching for Captain Joshua’s missive.  “Let us just put that ba—”

“Hey!”  Casey jumped backward, pulling the paper out of her reach.

“No worries, my dear,” the man said, aiming his short metal tube at Casey’s feet.  There was a _phut!_ , a tiny object struck the floor, and fine blue mist billowed upward.  Casey tried to cover her face, but the silent explosion was too quick; she breathed in a mouthful of the gas as she stepped backward again, waving her hands (and the letter) in an effort to dissipate whatever it was.

Images flooded her head as the blue smoke took effect – and oddly, most of them seemed to be of Candleshoe.  The library window seat...and a young golden-haired woman who was both familiar and strange, holding a storybook.  The Great Hall, where the iron sailor seemed far larger than it should have been, and the hall itself farther across.  Priory dusting right there in the foyer, his face largely unlined and his hair darker, though not from any sort of makeup or dye.  Her grandmother at the top of the stairs, an expression of alarm on her face.  A red convertible parked just outside the front entrance, with a dapper yet blank-faced man in driving cap and leather gloves at the wheel.

The landscape shifted, the snapshots coming faster.  Clouds, seen through an airplane window.  A plush bear that wasn’t Tiggy-Wink, hugged tightly by small hands in a series of strange beds.  Big white letters – H-O-L-L-Y – going by through a car window.  A spectacular, metallic _BANGKRUNCH!!_ , followed by trees everywhere.

Fingers snapped in front of her face.  “That will do,” said a man’s voice.  “She’ll not remember anything she’s done or seen today.”

Instinct took over; Casey’s free hand whipped up, catching his wrist.  “Wrong, bozo!”

He twisted his own hand with surprising strength, breaking her hold and flicking his tubular weapon outward, forcing Casey to dodge backward.  “Impossible!  My memory-clouding fog is infallible!”

“Unless – ”  The woman had produced a small pistol and was aiming it at her.  “You warned me once never to use it against the same person twice.  It would reverse the effect, you said.”  She frowned.  “But this is that American girl, the ringer.  Surely there’s no way she could have been exposed....”

Her companion frowned as well, studying Casey thoughtfully, then laughed aloud.  “If she were a ringer, no.  But you aren’t, are you?  There’s just one person you can be – little Margaret St. Edmund come home again, thanks to that bounder Bundage.  The irony is positively delicious.”

“Irony?”  Casey’s head was spinning, between the flood of images – memories? – and the visitors’ claims.  “Wait – you did this to me before?”

“Nearly eleven years past,” the man told her.  “To you and your father – and in far stronger measure.  At most, today’s dose should have taken mere hours from you.  That one?  Two years at least.”

“Two...years?”

It was too much to take in.  A half-strangled gasp escaped Casey’s lips, and a fresh wave of returning memories flashed across her mind as she crumpled to the floor.

 #

“...the irony is positively delicious.”

Priory had arrived in the foyer just in time to catch the last moments of the confrontation, and only the female intruder’s gun stopped him from leaping to Casey’s defense.  Then the substance of the revelation caught up with him, and he let out a gasp of his own.

“Then there never was a kidnapping.  Andrew was only taking his daughter home – to the only home he could still remember.”

“Precisely.”  The other intruder beamed, raising what looked like a baton as Priory took a cautious step forward.  “Kindly keep back, if you would.  Penelope _will_ shoot if necessary.”

Priory grudgingly held his position, taking a moment to study the visitors more carefully.  There was something familiar....

The object of his scrutiny gave a tiger-like smile.  “Lord Marmaduke Ffogg, at your service – and my sister, Lady Penelope Peasoup.  We’re here about the small matter of a stolen Cauldron.  I don’t suppose you’d care to open the treasure vault?”

“Ah, yes,” Priory said, nodding.  “That would be the Fogshire Ffoggs, formerly of Ffogg Place, more recently of Her Majesty’s prison system.   Noted pirates, smugglers, and rapscallions for the past several generations, as I recall.  I believe,” he added, “that you’ve come to the wrong estate.  The St. Edmund treasure was entirely in doubloons, and there’s no vault in any of the official plans.  You’re welcome to come back next week for the public tour – if the Yard hasn’t caught up with you by then.”

Lady Penelope scowled.  “May I shoot him, brother?”

“Not yet, my dear,” Ffogg replied.  “We’ll be needing his cooperation soon enough.”

That prompted a return scowl from Priory.  “You’ll not get it, milord.”

Ffogg merely grinned.  “We’ll see.  In the meantime...”  He twisted a narrow band near one end of the baton, pointed the other at Casey’s prone form, and tapped.  A puff of silver fog issued from the weapon’s tip and settled over her; a moment later, she gave a shuddering yawn and stirred, then rose a trifle unsteadily to her feet.

“Very good,” Ffogg said.  “Now, let me think; ah, of course.  Into the Great Hall, if you please, both of you.”  Priory exchanged glances with Casey – no, he corrected himself a trifle dazedly, with _Margaret_ – but she shrugged, tilting her head at Lady Penelope’s pistol, and he reluctantly followed her lead.

Once inside the vast chamber, Ffogg swung the doors shut, threw the newly installed bolt, and swept his gaze rapidly around the room.  “Excellent.  Now, then – let’s have you right over here, and you, just there.”  He waved Priory to a point near the middle of the hall, while Penelope guided Margaret at gunpoint to a spot much nearer the door.  Then he gave the control on his baton another twist, aimed the device at Priory, and fired.

A _whoosh_ of cherry-tinted smoke shot out, and Priory felt his body go abruptly and uncomfortably still.  “Fog of Immobility,” Lord Ffogg told him cheerily.  “This batch is only good for an hour or so, but that should be enough for our present needs.”

“And those would be what?”  That was Casey, sounding much more like herself than she had earlier.  Although, Priory thought wryly, that rather depended on what one counted as ‘herself’ in the circumstances.

Ffogg grinned as he withdrew the ring containing Candleshoe’s entire set of keys from Priory’s jacket pocket.  “These, for one.  And the fulfillment of a golden opportunity, for another.”

The renegade master of Fogshire leafed through the keys for a few moments, eventually selecting one of the smallest and most battered-looking.  Then he crossed the room, approached the enormous iron sailor, and inserted the little key into an opening slightly above the object’s waist.  There was a groaning _click_ , and the halves of the enormous figure parted slightly.  Ffogg pocketed the key ring, then pulled them more widely apart to reveal the sailor’s interior.

The right-hand half was mostly empty save for two sets of shackles attached to the inner wall, one pair at ankle level and the other high enough that any but the tallest prisoner would find himself spread-eagled against the cold iron surface.  The left half, by contrast, was studded so thickly with long, wicked-looking spikes that one could scarcely see the plate to which they’d been attached.

“An ingenious creation,” said Ffogg, his gaze resting on Casey.  “The original was invented by Captain Jamison St. Arnold, earl of Welbeck, a great rival of both your Captain Joshua and my Great-Great Grandfather Mandrake.  Unlike the typical iron maiden, simply closing the casket causes no immediate harm.  For that, one must turn the wheel on the sailor’s back, whereupon the tines–” he set a cautious finger on one of them, then pulled it back to show the pinprick of blood it had produced “–press inexorably forward, leaving their indelible impression on whoever is secured within.”

“Ow.  Nasty,” Casey said.  “So ours is a copy?”

“It is.  Note the lack of rust on the spikes; your oh-so-honorable ancestor preferred to intimidate his prisoners rather than pincushioning them.  St. Arnold, I’m told, was far less weak-willed.”

Casey gave Lord Ffogg a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding look.  “And I s’pose you want to see a demonstration.  Not interested.”

Ffogg’s smile wasn’t remotely pleasant.  “You’re under the illusion that you have a choice, my dear.  Now kindly step inside.”

“Or you’ll what, zap me with mind-control gas?”

“That would hardly be sporting,” Ffogg told her.  “Actually, I’ll use my Fog of Command on your loyal servant here, and have _him_ lock you in.”

Priory would have shuddered if not for his paralyzed state.  Casey did let out a shocked breath, then turned, gave the iron sailor a quick visual once-over, and nodded slightly.  “Two things,” she said.  “First, you know Priory here has no idea where your whatsit is.”

“And you do?”  Ffogg laughed.  “You, who’ve not set foot in Candleshoe for more than a decade?  We’ll find the Cauldron of Fog without you, my dear girl, never fear.  And the second?”

Impossibly, Casey grinned at him.  “If you strike me down, I shall become more powerful than you can possibly imagine,” she said, adopting a deep tone quite unlike her usual voice.

Ffogg and Lady Penelope exchanged mystified glances.  Penelope shook her head.   “She’s gone round the twist.”

“Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.  Now let’s get this over with,” Casey said.  She turned toward the iron sailor, tossing a glance over her shoulder at Priory – and adding a tiny, unobtrusive wink – as she stepped inside it.  Lord Ffogg moved forward as well, reaching in and fastening the shackles before stepping back, giving Priory a clear look at the imprisoned teenager before he and Lady Penelope pushed the sailor’s halves back together with a _clank_.

“My dear, if you’ll do the honors?”  Ffogg nodded at Lady Penelope, who pocketed her gun and stepped behind the sailor.  There was a second _clank_ and a noise of growling metal as she began turning the wheel.  Priory tried to close his eyes, but the paralyzing mist wouldn’t allow it, and he watched in horror as the immense device went about its work.

“And that,” Lord Ffogg said in a deeply satisfied tone, “puts paid at last to the St. Edmunds of Candleshoe.”


	4. Through Mortal Peril -- And Beyond

_I hope to God I’m right about this_ , Casey thought as the iron sailor’s latch ratcheted shut.  The darkness was nearly complete, though a sliver or two of light remained, slipping through where there were tiny gaps between the hammered iron plates.   Then she stamped down hard on the rough bump she had spotted moments earlier on the floor of the inner chamber, just where a prisoner’s left foot would be once she’d been secured.

At first, there was no response.  She stomped again, and the bump sank suddenly into the floor.  Then several things happened almost at once.  There was a quick, quiet _shnick!_ as the shackles slid abruptly forward a couple of inches, allowing her to wriggle free of their grip.  There was a soft _clank_ as the wall of spikes shuddered and slid backward by a similar amount.  And there was a much louder groan of gears as the entire inside of the sailor began to revolve.

_A-freaking-mazing_.  Casey held back a whistle of astonishment as the mechanism turned – then jumped, as she realized that while the wall was shifting, the floor beneath her feet was not.  Quickly, she pressed herself against a smooth section of wall and began moving step by careful step around the shell’s edge, matching her pace as best she could to the wall’s own motion.

It seemed to take an eternity before the assembly completed a full half-circle and ground to a halt.  By the time it did, Casey’s eyes had adjusted as best they could to the near-darkness.  Taking a silent breath, she looked down at the floor.  And below the space formerly occupied by the great mass of spikes was a patch of even deeper black.  Carefully, she dropped to her knees and probed the edges of the space with a foot.  There were no steps – the hole wasn’t big enough – but she located first one metal bar and then another set into its side, forming the beginnings of a ladder leading downward.  _Right, then – going down_.  And so she did, clambering one cautious step at a time into the pit.

It was a climb of no little distance.  Candleshoe had at least three separate cellars that Casey knew of, but wherever she was going was deeper underground than any of them.  The pit widened somewhat after the first few feet, and it seemed relatively dry – though she discovered by touch that it was in fact walled in stone, resembling the inside of a chimney or a well more than a natural cave or burrow.  It remained inconveniently dark for most of the descent – until eventually, one of the rungs gave a _click_ as she set her foot against it, and a moment later, flickering light flared a little way below, and in a few more feet she was at the bottom.

She found herself in a modest rectangular chamber, perhaps fifteen feet by ten.  Rows of old-fashioned glass-topped lamps sat in niches high on all four walls, burning what Casey assumed was some sort of oil.[1]  The shaft through which Casey had arrived emerged at one of the narrow ends, and along both longer walls a series of objects were arranged.  These included: an enormous snow-white bearskin, complete with head, draped like a cloak over a wooden rack; an equally monstrous mechanical crocodile, fully twelve feet long with skin intricately fashioned from thousands of interlocking metal plates; a longbow nearly as tall as Casey herself, with a green leather quiver of arrows leaning against the wall beside it; an old-fashioned silver hunting horn, engraved with a knotwork design and the thrown-back heads of several fierce-looking dogs; a coal-black iron pot about the size of a Halloween pumpkin, sitting atop a thick sheaf of manuscript bound in black leather and fastened shut with a matching strap; and farthest along on the right-hand side, a heavy carved walking stick topped with a baseball-sized silver knob.

“Great,” Casey said, eyeing the collection.  “Now all I need is a catalog.  Or at least some instructions.”  She took a step forward...and the stone under her foot went _click_.  A section of the wall to her right slid aside, revealing a small gray book.

Casey glanced toward the ceiling, as if looking around for an invisible narrator.  “Cute.”    Then she stepped sideways, plucked the book from its niche, and flipped it open.  The handwriting was – surprise – Captain Joshua’s.

> _Beware, you who Tread this path.  Before you are wondrous treasures, aye.  But no treasure comes without cost, and the Greatest gift often comes at the highest price.  Think well before using these things, and shrink not from Paying such debts as you May incur.  What I know of each Object, I have recorded in these Pages, but again, beware, for my knowledge is often Scant._
> 
> _When you are ready, Take what you will and go – upward or Down, as you choose.  The former Path is the more direct; the latter requires Patience to persevere._
> 
> _\-- Joshua St. Edmund, Marquis of Candleshoe_

“Great,” Casey said again.  “More clues to solve.”

She spent several minutes studying Captain Joshua’s notes.  Some of the stories were difficult to believe.  According to Joshua, the bearskin – properly, the Sark of Ulfgar – gave its wearer the strength and ferocity of ten...or just possibly turned you into an actual bear.  The longbow had supposedly belonged to Robin Hood.  The horn was said to call up a troop of spectral hunting hounds – and their master, who might just set them on the summoner rather than the summoner’s chosen prey.  The clockwork crocodile’s purpose was similar but slower, and one needed something of the victim’s in order to put it on the scent.  And of course there was the Cauldron of Fog, which together with the Ffogg family grimoire enabled the user to create powerful alchemical formulas – and perhaps to control the weather itself.

The walking stick, it turned out, was the very one with which Lord Bartholomew St. Edmund had dispatched the (alleged) werewolf.  Its magical properties, if any, were unclear, but it had evidently been blessed by two different Archbishops of Canterbury, contained a hidden dagger whose blade was also edged in silver, and brought good luck to whoever carried it.  “That, I can use,” said Casey.  She eyed the rest of the hoard with varying degrees of interest, reaching down to stroke the clockwork crocodile.  “I really, really want to take you upstairs,” she told it.  But she left the creature behind, heading for the far end of the room with only the walking stick and a pack of playing cards that had been left on one of the shelves.

There were more rungs set into the far wall, leading down into another chimney-like hole.  The downward climb, though, was much shorter, and at the bottom a narrow tunnel led forward, then angled sharply left.  Casey followed the passage – lit by a series of lamps that flickered on and then off again as she passed – until it ended in a solid-looking wall.

“Oh, come on,” Casey said, then began examining the corridor’s end more carefully.   A brief search revealed a square recess in one of the side walls, scarcely wider than her hand and just a few inches deep.  Above the opening, carved into the stone, was a neat letter A.

“Gotcha.”  She felt inside the recess for a moment, then pulled the deck of cards from her pocket, carefully inserted it into the niche and onto the rectangular plate she’d felt there, and pressed downward.  The cards sank into the stone with a _snik_ , and a section of the end wall slid aside to reveal a snug chimney-sized space.

“Good thing I used to play a lot of solitaire,” she muttered as she stepped into the hidden chamber, then sucked in a breath as the entrance abruptly closed behind her.  She had had just time to note that there were no ladder-rungs in her present quarters when a quiet grinding noise rose around her...

...and the floor began to rise with it.  “Sheesh,” said Casey.  “No wonder we practically went bankrupt.  Joshua must have blown a mint building that vault.”

The upward journey was surprisingly quick, and when she stepped out at the top of the shaft, Casey found herself in a hidden passage just outside the second-floor study.  She peered quickly through a spy hole into the room, noting that (a) it was empty, and (b), according to the grandfather clock on the opposite wall, her entire trip had taken barely three-quarters of an hour.

#

 “Step One,” Casey told herself, “call police.”  Fortunately, this was easier than it had been during Harry Bundage’s invasion – at both Priory’s and Grandmother’s insistence, the very first step in Candleshoe’s renovation had been to install modern telephone wiring.  So Casey needed merely to slip into her own bedroom and dial out, and the village constabulary promised immediate action.  But it would take time for them to arrive (and to notify Scotland Yard for backup), and Casey had no intention of waiting idly in the interval.

“Step Two, choose weapons.”  Working quickly, Casey made a rapid circuit of all the occupied bedrooms, coming away with an assortment of supplies.  It took only a few minutes to create what she wanted, at which point she slipped downstairs, keeping to the secret passages and moving as quietly as she could with a pillowcase full of gear slung over her shoulder and Lord Bartholomew’s stick in one hand.

_Step Three, locate the enemy._   Her first destination was the Great Hall, or rather the passage that ran alongside it.  A glance through the first spyhole found Priory still frozen in place, with the Ffoggs nowhere to be seen – and the iron sailor still closed.  Part of her wanted desperately to show herself so as to reassure him, but she resisted the impulse.  _First things first.  If we don’t catch those two before Grandmother gets home...._

Casey shivered, preferring not to finish the thought, and moved on.  She was fairly sure after her second-floor activities that Lord Ffogg and his sister weren’t anywhere upstairs, and a further few minutes trolling on the ground floor likewise failed to locate them.  Luckily, they had evidently bypassed the kitchen (the hidden entry might be blocked, but the spy hole wasn’t), and the genuine cleaning crews were packing up and preparing to depart.

That – rather as Casey had expected – left the cellars.  There were three: one below the kitchen, serving as auxiliary pantry and cold storage; one under the west wing, which had been servants’ quarters and below-stairs living space; and the third beneath the library.  It was this last, oldest cellar where the original armory and dungeon had been, but the hidden passage that ran behind and between them was in relatively poor repair, and the panel giving access to it made a disturbingly loud _creaaakk_ as Casey reached the bottom of the secret stairway and pushed it open.

“What was that?”  The voice belonged to Lady Penelope, and came almost directly into Casey’s ear.  This passage was old enough that, instead of sliding spy panels, there were iron gratings high on the walls of each adjacent room, which an observer would take for ordinary ventilation grates.  Casey froze.

“Nothing, my dear,” replied Lord Ffogg, though his snappish tone belied the endearment.  “The place is merely showing its age.”

“If you say so.  Blast it, where _can_ that treasure room be?”

The next response was even more irritated.  “Nearby, I’m sure.  Possibly one of the cells.”

“But we’ve already checked every one of them!”

Casey grinned, reached for the first of her improvised gimmicks, and removed the sock she’d used to cover it.  Then she held it up near the grating...where the old-fashioned alarm clock’s distinctive _tick tick tick_ began making its way into the room on the other side of the wall.

Lady Penelope reacted with a yelp.  “ _That’s_ not an old-building noise!”

“What isn’t?”  Ffogg was farther away from the wall.

“There’s ticking!”  Casey took a few steps away from the grating, then used the sock to muffle the noise.

“I don’t hear a deuced thing.”

Penelope’s voice sounded worried.  “It couldn’t be – could it?”

“Couldn’t be what?”

“You said one of Joshua’s prizes was – _that_ crocodile.”

Ffogg laughed.  “Von Hook’s clockwork monster?  Free?  Not likely.”

Behind the wall, Casey grinned and pulled the clock free, then walked it carefully past the grating, muting it again once she’d gone a few feet past the opening.

Penelope squeaked.  “See?  There it went again!”

“Curious,”  Ffogg said.  “Most curious.”

“You don’t think it’s...hunting us?”

“What, set on our track by Joshua’s ghost?  Don’t be absurd.”  But Ffogg’s foot tapped thoughtfully for a moment.  “Still.  If it is the crocodile, perhaps it will lead us to what we seek.”

“Maybe.”  Penelope sounded doubtful.  “And maybe it’ll eat us alive.”

“Hah,” Ffogg said, then paused.  “You may have a point, my dear.  Facing down von Hook’s creature might well count as mortal peril.  So let’s go hunting.”

_Gotcha_.  Casey gave herself a mental high-five.

“Which way?” Lady Penelope asked.

“Further on, I think,” said Ffogg.  Their footsteps pattered toward the armory door.  Casey, who was wearing sneakers to avoid being heard, quickly moved down the hidden corridor to a point near another grating.  Once there, she set her clock to ticking again, holding it as close to the grate as she dared till she heard the intruders coming near.

“It’s in there!”  That was Penelope.  As two sets of footfalls approached, Casey tiptoed several yards farther down the passage before once again muffling the clock.

Ffogg made an annoyed noise.  “No, but it’s nearby.  Quick, now!”

They maintained the chase for another three rooms – guardpost, smith’s workroom, storage chamber – before reaching Casey’s goal.  “That way!” Ffogg called, his voice and the duo’s booted feet audible just outside the first of several cells where the early lords of Candleshoe had kept prisoners.  The passage Casey was using ran along the rear of the row of cells; here, the gratings set as listening posts were at floor level, set beneath the stone benches on which captives might lie while confined.  She set her ticking clock down just out of sight of the first cell’s grate, and waited.

“Is it – in there?”  Penelope’s voice was querulous.

Ffogg’s was brusque.  “See for yourself!”

His sister didn’t reply, but Casey heard her – one cautious step at a time – walk through the open doorway.  “I hear it, but I don’t—”

_CLLAANNNGGG!!_

A heavy iron portcullis dropped across the cell entrance, courtesy of a release Casey had just tripped from her station in the hidden passage.  No one was quite certain what the setup had been used for under the first few masters of Candleshoe, but when Priory had recruited the other orphans to assist with the public tours, they had made a point of sprucing up the mechanism and using it to dramatic effect.  Just now, it had accomplished an even more useful goal: the invading forces had been cut in half.

The noise drowned out Lord Ffogg’s next words, but not Lady Penelope’s shriek.  “Get me out!”

There was a brief, taut silence.  Then: “For the moment – I cannot.”

“ _What?_   Use your dissolving fog!”

“I haven’t enough.  A pellet would do for the lock on a door or a safe, but not these bars, and I’ve but two in the tube.  Besides,” Ffogg added, “don’t you see, this proves we’re on the right track.”

Penelope snorted.  “And how’s that?”

“Remember the letter, my dear: _you must sacrifice freedom_.  And so you’ve done, just as that fox Joshua promised.  But he won’t have counted on two of us to dodge his so-called mortal peril, and that’s where we’ll beat him.”  Ffogg laughed – and Casey had to resist the impulse to join him.

“Yes, well, don’t think you’re taking my gun,” Penelope told him.  “If that crocodile turns up, I’m blowing its little clockwork brain to smithereens.”

“See that you do.”  As Ffogg spoke, Casey moved, retracing her steps along the secret passage.  And as she reached the next spy-grate along her route, she held the clock beside it, allowing its _tick tick tick_ to echo into the cellar proper.  “Ah, there it goes!” Ffogg cried, and the chase was on again.  Tick by tick, room by room, Casey lured the rogue peer back through the cellar and then up onto the main floor. 

Pursuer and pursued both paused as they reached the library, Ffogg catching his breath and listening intently while Casey knelt near the spy hole and launched her second decoy.  She’d borrowed a pair of roller skates from Bobby’s room and tied the loudest alarm clock she’d found to one of them with shoelaces.  Now she sent the skate rolling along the hidden passage with a brisk push, its _ticktickticktick_ receding as it moved farther from the library’s spyhole.

“Not so fast!”  Ffogg was off again, pulling open the library door as Casey darted ahead to the spyhole opening onto the foyer, scooping up the skate as she went – and gasped at what she saw.

At the same moment Lord Ffogg stepped into the foyer from the library, Priory was emerging from the Great Hall.  His face was streaked with moisture, but his expression was grim, and he was reaching for one of the newly installed telephones when his eyes met Ffogg’s.

“ _Murderer!_ ”   Priory’s voice was a half-strangled roar.

 “A pleasure, I assure you,” Ffogg replied, smiling toothily.  The scene froze for a moment, as the two men gauged each other’s strength and intent.  And then—

Priory set himself to spring on Lord Ffogg...

...Ffogg twirled his baton upward, one finger spinning its control dial...

...Casey burst through into the foyer, leaving a half-broken secret panel behind her...

...the two men’s gazes flicked sideways, taking in her sudden appearance...

...Priory’s eyes blazed with flabbergasted joy...

...Ffogg’s flashed from shock to rage to arctic hate...

...his baton spun to point at Casey...

...Priory dove toward her, trying to knock her out of its line of fire...

...as he tackled her, Casey flung Lord Bartholomew’s staff at Lord Ffogg...

...the staff hurtled through the air, its motion half spear and half boomerang...

...its silver head scored a direct hit on the center of Ffogg’s baton...

...Lord Ffogg staggered backward at the impact...

...Casey and Priory hit the floor...

...and the baton exploded.

It was a remarkably quiet explosion, but the pyrotechnics were spectacular.  A dozen different colors and textures of fog erupted from the broken baton at once – crimson and azure, fine mist and murky smoke, silver and emerald and gold – blending and swirling into a column of rainbow vapor that surrounded the dazed Lord Ffogg like an intangible cloak.  As Ffogg stood transfixed within the column, the front doors of the house burst open to reveal a half-dozen policemen.  With the sudden infusion of cool outside air, the varicolored fog abruptly collapsed in on itself, fading away into nothingness...

...and as it did, Lord Marmaduke Ffogg blinked, glanced down at himself, and – with an expression of alarmed astonishment on his face – evaporated into mist, leaving only a damp gray puddle on the floor.

The chief constable eyed the puddle nervously as he crossed to where Casey and Priory were scrambling to their feet.  “Ah, will you be needing us any further, miss?”

“We’ve still got one in the dungeon,” Casey told him, grinning, and not resisting at all as Priory folded her into a completely uncharacteristic hug.

“The dungeon?” Lady St. Edmund inquired, coming through the front door.  “What’s been going on here?  The vicar very kindly ran me back from the committee meeting when the constable called, but no one would say why.”  Her eyebrows rose sharply as she took in Casey’s and Priory’s embrace.  “Is everything all right?”

“Mmmmf,” Casey said, catching her breath and untangling herself sufficiently to pull her grandmother into the hug.  “Everything is spectacular, but the story’s complicated.  Hey,” she added, looking up at Priory, “what do you know?  Good old Bart’s cane really is lucky.  But I still kinda want to go back for the crocodile.”

# # #

  


* * *

[1] We will skip blithely over the question of how Captain Joshua engineered self-lighting oil lamps several decades before the first modern matches were invented.  This is, after all, a Disney universe, and technology in Disney universes is often...flexible in its degree of realism.

**Author's Note:**

>  _Especially alert readers may recognize Lord Marmaduke Ffogg and Lady Penelope Peasoup, whom I have borrowed (and somewhat amplified) from the 1960s television incarnation of_ Batman _. I had initially chosen the two purely for comic effect, but the two canons' timelines turned out to dovetail unexpectedly well. Under the circumstances, I also couldn't resist making certain further assumptions about Priory's background...which also turned out to dovetail more neatly than I'd realized. That said, virtually no knowledge of Bat-canon is required for purposes of the present story, and I hope that no one is confused -- or appalled -- at the minimal crossover elements of the foregoing narrative._


End file.
